that's mrs. mediocrity to you

seventeen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

the trees are dying.

okay, only two out of seven
but they’re my favorite two and
when i walk outside
to listen to whispers

i hear the sounds of mourning.

.

already
i feel time slipping through bent fingers

already
i’ve picked a place to bury sun-bleached bones

already
i’m learning the words
to a song i’d prefer not to sing

.

that’s not to say
i don’t watch the sunset

that’s not to say
i don’t smile when the moon
knocks on my window

that’s not to say
i don’t sing with the robin at sunrise

it’s just to say
i notice.

the trees are dying.

.

.

.

Mine lives just down the road, at the bottom of a hill I don’t climb often enough.

There are all sorts of metaphors I could spin around swamps, all sorts of things to say about current events.

Suffice it to say the last 18 months have been rough, in so many ways.

For now, the swamp is still there. It’s been a dry couple of months, so I won’t be surprised if it evaporates again this year. The fish will die, the air will smell, the herons, egrets, and vultures will have a party.

I will miss the reflection of sky as I drive by.

I will miss the serenity and the promise of intrigue that bodies of water always offer.

I will miss the geese who have nowhere to land.

I will miss the comfort of home.

I will despair, briefly, at all the mud and the loss and the injustice.
(I don’t do well with injustice).

One day it will rain again.

Puddles will grow and water will flow.

I’ll complain about the basement flooding.

The birds will return and the sun will shine and the cycle will begin, again.

At least that’s what I want to believe.

. . .

the crows wait by the side
as i skirt the puffed body
of an unfortunate car-naive groundhog

. . .

I hold my breath and keep walking,
metaphors lining my pockets.

. . .

.

.

.

. . .

when we all have wet feet and broken hearts and crooked arrows

incredulity becomes reality and mud sticks between toes

that refuse to stop walking

shutupshutupshutupshutup

the slap of heels on grooved wet pavement

it just keeps raining (pouring)

salt in old wounds

no time to heal

no time

time

on time

an hourglass

of sacrificial sand

it just keeps raining (pouring)

the slap of heels on grooved wet pavement

shutupshutupshutupshutup

that refuse to stop walking

incredulity becomes reality and mud sticks between toes

when we all have wet feet and broken hearts and crooked arrows

. . .

a frozen sunrise
leaps between trees shocked
by the cold of reality
on a morning left behind
by a year
marked with double-time
mis-step
black heels pounding
history’s false rhythm
good evil
light dark
black white
grey pavement winding
forward
the only
right
direction

.

.

.

Joining in over at dVersePoets for Quadrille.

people say you’ve changed
and i say

hallelujah!

about time!

how high?

my feet got bigger
and my hips got wider
and crone was painted every
where i looked in
big red scary letters
or long retracted grey whispers
(and both sound exactly just the same)

i inherited all this anger
from the girl that came before
this rage
raging all around

i’ve been breathing rage
for a year now

a year that broke my heart
in every sideway possible
and screwed it back together
with those cheap screws
that break
when you crank too hard

that makes it sound worse than it was
that makes it sound easier than screaming
that makes it sound so grandiose

when really it was just hours
and minutes and tears and breathing
sweat equity pouring down my back
as i walked for miles and miles and miles
and never did get far enough away

i have calluses stronger than my silence
i have plastic words and a purple parachute
i have this empty body standing tall

and we all sag under the weight
of whittled-down survival

…..

this afternoon
the sky
was filled with geese

winter is coming

winter is coming

at night i hear these words
in the darkness

outside my window

inside my head

your voice

my voice

whisper scream

the possibility

of resurrection

.

.

.

and all these temporary moments
but we crave permanence, don’t we?

i think that may be what makes us human

all these losses
broken promises
little hurts
deep wounds

stem from that desire

and the reality of truth
is always winning

say hello
wave goodbye

each night
each hour
each minute

say hello
wave goodbye

the morning glory
has just one day
to bloom

say hello
wave goodbye

but look
how she loves
the sky

.

.

.

sixteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

today

i walked
in the rain

thunder
hounding

feet
pounding

head held
high

going
nowhere

sorta
fast

.

.

.

i once
built a moon
on a red wall of chapter
singing verse and pressing mortar
into cracks and desperation

all scrabble fingered
and blister burned

pasting love and scraps of
survival
over lies and offered
fiction

all the while pretty singing

this is the light
we eat by

this is the light
i worship at night

this is the light
i fly to

burning wing and hemmed
betrayals

my own false idol
swinging from a string
in the blackest corner
of orion’s night

.

.

.